


one per customer

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, cop yourself a five dollar foot long ;), idk they work at subway what do u want me to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 01:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16776829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: “Okay, fuck you, you wouldn’t know good food if it kicked the shit out of you.” Brady frowns at him before adding, “I’m gonna crank one out to that sandwich later. Watch me.”





	one per customer

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm food is good:)
> 
> also, i've never worked at subway so i'm sorry if everything abt this is inaccurate!!! yike!!

Brady drums his fingers against the counter as he watches their last customer walk out the door, waiting until it clicks before he turns to Jimmy.

“You see that fucking sandwich I just made,” he says, and he’s wearing enough intensity on his face that Jimmy has to take a step back and busy himself with throwing out Brady’s gloves. 

“I wasn’t really paying attention, but sure, why not,” he admits, and watches Brady roll his eyes like he’s forsaken the ground they stand on.

“The guy literally just asked me what I recommended for everything he got—that was a good ass sandwich, I’m telling you. It came from the _heart_ ,” Brady explains, pressing his palm to his chest. It’s not over his heart, and Jimmy guesses that’s why he barely passed biology. “I’m the only reason we’re getting good yelp reviews. I’m carrying this entire franchise.”

Jimmy tries not to snort, because that definitely isn’t cute. Even if Brady hasn’t been cute since day one. Not with his dumbass Subway visor. He’s got standards for himself at least, even if Brady clearly doesn’t care. “Subway is not a franchise you wanna be carrying. You’re doing a shitty job, too,” Jimmy tells him, 

“Okay, fuck you, you wouldn’t know good food if it kicked the shit out of you.” Brady frowns at him before adding. “I’m gonna crank one out to that sandwich later. Watch me.” 

“ _No_ ,” Jimmy sputters, and he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh or ask to be relocated to the Subway that actually gets business. His boss probably wouldn’t be all too happy with that, but hey. “No to both of those, I mean,” he adds quickly, because Brady’s raising his eyebrows at him. “Awful—you’re _awful_. This conversation is cancelled.”

“Man, you don’t get it. Sometimes us talented artists make good ass sandwiches, it’s not my fault the sandwich gods decided not to bless you.” Brady shrugs, like Subway is a fucking religion, and Jimmy decides not to prod at it too much. But. 

“Sandwich gods,” he repeats, incredulous. “Say word?”

“It’s real, don’t disrespect my beliefs.”

“You scare away all of our customers,” Jimmy says matter-of-factly, and steals a cookie from its case. 

“Can I have a cup for water?” Some kid walks up to the counter and asks. He isn’t really asking, it’s mostly demanding, and it might be stupid but Jimmy feels a little threatened. By a teenager no less. 

He glances at Brady, who’s pretending to look busy, scrubbing down the same spot on the counter for the fifteenth time today, and passes the cup over.

“Here, man,” he says, and gets the cup torn out of his hand. It takes a second to collect himself before turning to Brady and making a face like _did you just see what I saw_. 

“Shit happens,” Brady says, by means of an explanation, and Jimmy rolls his eyes as he watches a woman—presumably the kid’s mom—start telling Brady just how to make her sandwich. This is the part where he gets to zone out and stare at the ceiling, but, like, that’s definitely not how it goes. Not this time around.

He hears the fizzy sound of soda dispensing, and glances over at the machine to catch a glimpse of the kid filling his cup up with a dark liquid. Definitely not water, which is brutally clear now that Jimmy’s _staring_. 

The kid doesn’t make a move to spill it out, just sips at it and walks off to a table, which is like—against their rules. And Jimmy should stop him, or say _something_ , but Brady slides him a toasted footlong on whole wheat and he decides packing some bread with vegetables is higher on his scale of priorities. 

“Did you see that kid fill up his cup with Coke?” Brady says later, and he’s laughing because seriously, that was Jimmy’s bad if anything. 

“No,” he lies, and Brady pauses just to stare him down. Jimmy looks away. He really hates having to look right into Brady’s eyes. They’re soft and warm, and too much for Jimmy to have on his plate right now. “Fine. Yes,” he says, and Brady lets out a little bout of laughter that sounds like it escapes him more or less without his permission.

“You’re so bad at this,” he says, and flips Jimmy’s hat around so it’s not backwards anymore. He looks about as amused as someone working at Subway should never be. 

“I’m doing just fine, thanks.” He shifts his cap back to where it’s been originally, and Brady scoffs. “I want this to be a happy community.”

“Where people get away with stealing soda, huh.” Brady rolls up onto the balls of his feet. “Kinda interesting.” 

“I don’t appreciate you bullying me,” Jimmy deadpans, and even if he doesn’t sound the slightest bit hurt, Brady still coos at him. It’s a mess.

Brady fills up a cup with two different flavours from the soda machine and slides it towards Jimmy, because wasting cups is their thing now, he guesses. 

He knows what fucking game this is, he’s supposed to guess what the two drinks are, but he can’t help and put on a stern look just to frown at Brady. “It’s disappointing that youth these days don’t realize the value of a good cup.”

“Literally—fuck you,” he says, and leans into Jimmy’s space when he laughs. “C’mon guess. You’re not gonna get it this time.”

When Jimmy takes a sip, whatever concoction Brady put together tastes like a fizzy mess, and everything just blends together.

After a bit of guessing, Brady reveals that it’s cherry cola and water, and Jimmy isn’t sure why he ever decided to not hate him.

(He gets him back with root beer and ice tea.)

There’s a camera in the break room, which is like. A little stupid. They don’t really need it or the break room as a whole, especially because their Subway location is empty about 90% of the time. Which isn’t really something to complain about, but like, the camera doesn’t make any sense.

At least not until Jimmy presses in next to Brady at a table, and he’s pointing out just how fucking awfully his textbook work was done when someone walks into the camera’s line of sight. 

Jimmy glances up to see someone grab a bag of salt and vinegar chips and dip out of there casually enough that if Brady wasn’t sitting right next to him he would’ve thought Brady scanned them out.

They watch the figure walk off the screen, and exchange glances between each other. 

“It was your turn,” Jimmy says, because last time he dealt with some kid stealing shit from them he had guilt trips about Coke thieves inconveniencing their manager for the longest time. It’s not a fun ride.

“What do you mean _my turn_ ,” Brady argues, and makes a face at him. He doesn’t look serious, but then again he doesn’t ever. “You could’ve handled that. You work here.”

“You do too, fucker,” Jimmy says. “Don’t you carry this franchise? And you’re telling me you’d just let someone snatch your chips.”

“The disrespect.”

“You‘re a fraud of a businessman.” Jimmy sighs, and wipes a nonexistent tear from his cheek. “Everyone wants to _be_ that guy, but nobody wants to be _that_ guy.”

“What does that even mean,” Brady says. “I really wish I could respond to that, but I don’t understand—“

“Of course you don’t. If you let your customers steal chips, you, in turn, are stealing chips,” Jimmy says, and he’s starting to question his own so-called flawless logic. He’ll figure that part out later.

“I’m quitting,” Brady announces to nobody in particular, and right when Jimmy thinks he’s going to make a move to leave the break room, he presses right into his side and scribbles down another answer into his notebook.

It’s about five seconds past closing when Brady hops over the counter to bring in the table and chairs from outside. Jimmy watches him walk up to the doors, pause, and make a full 180 degree turn back towards Jimmy. 

“Aren’t you gonna help?” He says, and he pinches his brows together like bringing in the table is really going to take everything out of him. Jimmy has to will himself down from laughing.

“No, what the fuck, go,” Jimmy says, but Brady crosses his arms over his chest like a stubborn child. He makes a face like one too, jutting out his bottom lip.

“I need help,” he insists. “What if I dislocate my shoulder.”

“Bray, bring in the shit.” 

“I could get seriously hurt.” Brady frowns at him, because he never brings the table and chairs in alone. Because bumping into customers trying to come in after closing is a real possibility that Brady isn’t very great at dealing with. 

“I swear to god,” Jimmy starts, and Brady laughs before ducking out past the door. 

Jimmy thinks he makes up the clatter he hears outside the door in his head, but then he actually scrambles outside and—

“Holy shit,” Jimmy snaps, and Brady looks at him from where he’s sprawled on on the ground. 

“Sorry, ‘m fine, just tripped,” he slurs, and makes a breathy noise that Jimmy guesses is supposed to be a laugh. He’s a klutz. Jimmy’s biting back a smile while simultaneously trying to figure out just how Brady fucked up this bad. The pathway isn’t that cracked.

Jimmy offers him a hand, looking apologetic. His eyes graze over the scratch on the side of his forehead, because of course the landing was graceless. “Please tell me you’re okay, that was the worst.” 

Brady takes his hand, and he winces like it hurts to stand. Jimmy thoughtlessly gives his hand a squeeze before letting go. “Yeah, I’m—the chair attacked me,” he says, and then grimaces. “Or, like, the pavement hates me.”

“You’re bleeding,” Jimmy points out and nearly laughs out loud when Brady blinks at him like he’s speaking an entirely differently language.

“What?”

Jimmy points right above his own eyebrow just to demonstrate where exactly the damage is. “You’re bleeding,” he repeats, and he can feel the fragments of a chuckle bubbling up in his throat

“Oh. I, uh, called it,” he says. “Not really something to be proud of.”

“You’re hopeless,” Jimmy says, and he can hear just how fond he sounds. It should be concerning. “C’mon, time to fix you up

When they get back inside the Subway with the table and chairs, Jimmy pulls out their first aid kit.

Brady waits patiently while Jimmy dabs his wound with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic, and Jimmy can’t help but find it endearing. He just—he really likes this kid.

“So I can’t trust you with anything, right?” He asks, aware of his smile before anything else.

“You’re one to talk,” Brady says, but he’d mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” earlier, so Jimmy’s deciding to only register that part of it. 

“You’ve got two left feet man,” Jimmy tells him.

Brady sucks in a breath, wincing a little. “And you suck at making sandwiches.”

“At least I can walk three steps without face planting.” Jimmy presses a bandaid over where he’d cleaned his scratch, and resists the urge to kiss it.

“That’s fair.”

Jimmy stares down the three pieces he’d cut a footlong into, trying to determine what exactly to fill his first mini sandwich with. 

Brady’s waiting off to the side with a blindfold over his eyes, and he’s supposed to guess the ingredients Jimmy puts on the loaf, but he can’t do that if Jimmy doesn’t make up his mind. So.

And really, they’re not supposed to do this. But the place is empty. It always is. They have to improvise sometimes.

Jimmy’s walking the fine line between choosing banana peppers or jalapeño peppers, because he isn’t sure whether he wants to confuse Brady or torture him. It’s a struggle. 

He goes with both, plus some spinach and hot sauce. 

Brady makes an unimpressed face at him when he takes a bite, and Jimmy laughs so hard he nearly bumps into the wall.

When it’s Jimmy’s turn to guess, Brady hands him a mini sandwich full of nothing but jalapeños and says, “Payback, bitch,” while Jimmy’s trying to drown himself in the sink.

When Jimmy walks in on Brady chopping onions, his eyes are red and he looks just about on the verge of tears. He notices the expression on his face before he notices the onions, and Jimmy has a moment of panic before he catches himself.

“Bray—“ he cuts himself off when Brady looks towards him and smiles, this warm thing that he really needs to start watching out for. It could do some serious damage if he’s not careful with it.

“I fucking love minimum wage,” Brady says, and slides the onions into their basket. He holds up his gloved hand, it’s covered in onion juice. “High five,” he calls, a grin splitting his face.

Jimmy really doesn’t want to, but he high fives him anyways. That’s just about when he realizes the feelings he has for Brady are more than bros, because sacrificing himself like that is a big deal. Which is some real shit.

He can’t really tell Brady it’s some real shit, because it would make things awkward, so he decides to throw a slice of onion at him before he gets pelted in return. You could say it’s gross, but they burned that bridge years ago.

Brady unloads a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream onto a double chocolate chip cookie, and he’s saying words, but all Jimmy is processing is his stomach begging him not to take a bite of that.

He presses another cookie on top, and shows it off like it belongs in a museum. “It’s an ice cream sandwich,” Brady explains, holding it out for him. “Because, y’know, I’m a sandwich artist.”

“That looks _terrible_.” It doesn’t look terrible in the sense that Jimmy might gag if he eats it, it’s terrible because he’s going to have to spend a good five hours on the treadmill to burn that off. 

“So do you. It’s a match made in heaven,” he insists, and wiggles his eyebrows. “You gotta try, Ves, please. I worked super hard on it. I brought ice cream in just for _you_.” 

And well, to sugar-coat it, Jimmy feels flattered.

But to be brutally honest, every time Brady flutters his eyelashes at him, his brain threatens to go offline and he needs a moment to collect himself. There’s something about when Brady says _please_ and _Ves_ that makes it harder than ever to deny him of anything. As if Jimmy’s ever been able to tell him no without feeling bad.

“I’m gonna die of a sugar rush,” Jimmy says, and Brady hands him the ice cream sandwich anyways.

“Well, I’ll be right here to support you through it. I got your back. You know me, man.” He watches him excitedly as Jimmy takes a bite, and Jimmy tries his hardest to keep the embarrassing noises behind his lips. 

Brady’s watching him like he’s afraid of rejection, and there’s no way he realizes just how pretty he looks. With his dumb fucking visor and his tacky green uniform. 

It starts like that, maybe, when Jimmy starts associating his love for ice cream with Brady, and Jimmy’s gone, gone, gone.

It was bound to happen at some point, Jimmy watching a woman walk up to the counter from the gritty camera in the break room and start yelling at Brady. She’s waving her arms around and making faces like there’s a fucking stick up her ass, which means Jimmy should probably step in.

He does, this time. Because this concerns Brady, and Brady’s a lot more than the coworker he spends most of his time with. 

“Let me speak to your manager,” are the first words he hears as he walks over to him, and the woman is red in the face. He doesn’t get how a sandwich could make anyone so fucking angry, but he ends up standing next to Brady like a guard dog anyways.

The thing is: they don’t have a manager. Or at least, not at the moment. The owner of their location is always at the busier Subway, because, like, why would they be here at all. 

Jimmy and Brady exchange these knowing looks, and Brady seems a little panicked so he really has to give out to instincts at this point.

“What’s up,” Jimmy says, and frantically adds a lacklustre, “Ma’am.” 

The lady explains, like this is a matter of life or death, that Brady added enough lettuce to her sandwich that it instantly fell apart in her car. Jimmy literally has to blink back his surprise, because everything about that is unbelievably stupid. 

“Cool, so like,” Jimmy turns to glance and Brady, and then back at the lady, and he has to will down the urge to shrug at her because _how_ is he supposed to respond to that. “He’ll make you a new one?”

“She asked for extra lettuce,” Brady inserts, but—

“I don’t want _him_ handling _my_ food,” she snaps, and Brady makes a small sound like he’s trying to stomp down a fit of laughter. 

Jimmy opens his mouth, closes it, and offers, “Uh, okay, I’ll make your sandwich?” Which is a completely reasonable compromise in his opinion. To which the lady decides now is a good time to unload all her complaints onto them about this location specifically. It's great.

And Jimmy really just zones it out, trying to avoid asking _what the fuck is your point_. 

It’s funny because she ends up leaving in this fit of rage, and Brady doesn’t even wait until the door shuts entirely behind her to start laughing. “ _Wow_ ,” he wheezes. “Way to diffuse the situation.”

“Hey, I tried.”

“I felt threatened.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “But I _tried_.”

Brady puts a firm set in his shoulders, like he’s actually disappointed. Jimmy almost convinces himself he really did fuck it up, but then, “You should probably take me out to dinner later to make up for it. Tonight, maybe."

Jimmy chokes on his own breath, and Brady shrugs like it’s the most innocent thing he’s ever offered. Which, by comparison to tagging their boss' car, yeah. Kind of. “What?”

“Is that a no?” Brady asks, and Jimmy watches the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

“No, no, we can—yeah, we can do that.” Jimmy says, and Brady laughs, taking his hand and giving it a small squeeze. 

“Okay, cool,” he says, a little breathless.

“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees, smiling. “Cool.”

And it might not mean anything right now, when Brady leans in a little closer, but to Jimmy it’s everything.


End file.
